


Things Unsaid

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the echoes of silence lie things unsaid</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard  
> Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on - John Keats

He woke a little bit after noon. The sun was still out- he could feel it, like a sweet burning in his blood that almost tempted him to move closer to the heavy drapes that were edged in bright gold. William had never needed much sleep, something that hadn't changed with his death. He was usually awake long before the others, and with the rest of his family sound asleep, he was left pretty much to his own devices for most of the day. 

Today, though... today was different. Or at least, he'd have thought it would be. But apparently even spending the night lost to debauchery was no guarantee of a full day's sleep. He turned over slowly, moving carefully to avoid waking his bed partner. Bed partner. No, more than that. Lover. A broad smile spread over his lips as it sank in: he had a lover, someone who wanted him and wasn't shy about showing it. 

And his lover was a beautiful creature, to be sure. William gazed at the dark hair that lay strewn in a tangled mass about the pillow, then slowly moved down to his lover's face, with granite-hewn features and thin lips that had been swollen from kisses when they collapsed at last just before dawn. His kisses. He'd kissed those lips and been kissed by them, over and over while he sank his fingers into that thick cloud of hair and begged for more. He'd seen dark eyes heavy-lidded with need and a stern facade melt into rapture as passion overtook them both. And there had been more, too, so much more... 

His schoolmates had spoken of the pleasures to be found in bed, but always with crude words and cruder jokes that held none of the wonder that William had discovered last night in his lover's arms. The bliss that he knew was possible didn't seem as though it inhabited the same world as the brothels and hard-eyed mistresses of the city he'd spent so much of his life in. He didn't think anyone he knew had ever known what it was to be swept up in desire's wake, to have hands and mouth tease them to peaks undreamt of, to surrender to the ecstasy of fingers, lips and tongue... but then, he didn't think they could have conceived of someone like Angelus. 

In fact, he knew they couldn't. He hadn't dared to imagine anything like Angelus when he was alive, so how could his staid peers possibly have looked outside their safe little circles to see the wolf that sat waiting just outside their doors? Not that recognizing him would've done any good. He was a formidable, imposing man, but it was the intensity of his eyes and promise of pleasures untold in the dark timbre of his voice that proved to be his irresistible weapons. 

William had been no different than the thousands that had come before him. One look into those dark eyes and he was Angelus' willing slave, whether he'd realized it or not. Although if he had known about the pleasures to be found in Angelus' bed, he thought he would've begged for it on that first night. Who would've thought that a man could be so tender, so gentle and so loving, especially when that man wasn't really a man at all? In his hands, William had felt like one of his cousin's blooded horses, all of his nerves soothed away by the sweep of Angelus' hand and the low purr of his voice as he spoke of the things he wanted to do to him. 

And what things he had done! His body had been petted, caressed with light touches that teased him before he was captured in a firm hold and stroked to the edge of reason. Angelus had taken him into his mouth, sucked him deep into his throat until William screamed out his release, and then... ohhh, then he'd laid William out and sunk his cock inside him, taken him like a woman, and like a woman, William had writhed and clawed at his back, gasping and sobbing for more. He'd clung to the other man's broader frame and begged to be fucked harder and faster as Angelus rode him, rubbing against a spot deep within that made him see stars with every thrust. Just when the pleasure had grown almost too much to bear, fangs had sunk into his neck to send him tumbling into bliss along with Angelus. 

He supposed he was a deviant, now. That was the word whispered in hushed voices, the reason Ryan Parker had left school halfway through his sixth year. Later, William heard that he had been discovered with an older boy, naked and in a lover's embrace. He hadn't understood why a man would seek another male's touch in such an intimate manner, but now he knew. If Ryan's lover had been anything at all like Angelus, he would've tasted heaven. No woman could do that, take a man to those heights at such speed. They were lovely things, tender and gentle, but there was a strength in Angelus' hands, a sense of surrender that he doubted he would ever find in any woman's bed. 

Yes, last night had held any manner of revelations. He'd watched Angelus give himself over to passion and the memory of his stoic sire moaning as he thrust into him would be something he'd always hold close. But it was afterwards, when Angelus pulled him close and whispered, "Sleep, little one," that had been the turning point. There was something about the way the big man cuddled him, like a child holding a teddy bear, that spoke directly to William's vulnerable heart. 

He could never tell him, of course. Already he knew that tenderer emotions were scorned in his new family, and he was sure that love would be the worst sin of all. Angelus disdained it, dealing out some of his most vicious tortures to human lovers, and William very much doubted that he would be shown any mercy simply because he was a vampire. If anything, his own punishment would be far worse. He was a demon now, supposed to be above such weaknesses... but he couldn't seem to help himself. 

William sighed. Soon the sun would set and they would all go out hunting again, and he would have to lock everything away and pretend that last night had been nothing more than an incredible fuck. But right now he had these few golden hours, while the sunshine around the drapes made the room glow with a soft light and his sire slept. The young vampire stared at the features, so much softer in repose, and felt the last shards of his heart slip away. Perhaps, just perhaps, one day Angelus might give him this kind of tender look while he was awake. He licked his lips and whispered in a thready voice, "I love you, sire." 

There was no response, of course, but simply saying the words eased some of the pressure inside and allowed him to snuggle back against his sire's body and slide back into sleep for a little while longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us - Norman Maclean

Angelus walked over to the wall and turned the spigot on with a twist of his wrist. He dropped the whip onto the floor, watching with an absent air as the water splattered down onto the blood-soaked leather coils. Raising his hand to his mouth, he licked one of the larger smears from the back of his hand, then turned away, leaving the water running. 

He approached the figure that dangled limply from the shackles that were suspended from the ceiling. "Wake up, boy," he ordered. "We're not through yet." There was no answer, no movement and he scowled, then raked his nails down the bleeding back. When even that failed to elicit a response, he plunged his fingers into the long sandy hair and pulled William's head back. 

The fine features were relaxed, peaceful and composed in the way that only utter unconsciousness could bring about. Tear tracks down his cheeks and lips that were bloody and raw spoke of the way he'd held out under his sire's games, and Angelus smiled, unable to help being proud of the spirit that had refused to break under the whip. Maybe there was hope for the boy yet. 

Letting his head drop, Angelus went back to the spigot and finished washing his hands, then turned the water off. It dripped down onto the stone floor, but he was already past caring about anything except the limp body of his newly claimed childe. Walking over to him, Angelus had to admit that whatever else he was, he was beautiful. The bleeding whip marks, burns and carefully placed slices that covered his body only enhanced what was already there. 

But there was one thing that troubled him. William was... well, there was no other word for it. He was weak. Soft and... almost human, sometimes. Oh, he certainly could kill, and after today's lesson, he would almost definitely be more vicious about it. There would be no more snapping necks before he drank, not after Angelus had nearly flayed him with the bullwhip for it. But there was a tenderness within him that might almost be called a soul, a light inside that even his death had been unable to extinguish. 

Not for the first time, Angelus wondered if something had gone wrong with the boy's turning. He was just too damned sweet for a demon. "What am I going to do with you, William?" he asked softly. "You won't break for me, but I can't have you continuing as you are. It's only my company that's kept you from getting attacked, and I won't be with you on every hunt." 

Only silence answered him. He smiled and slid a hand under the veil of hair, laying it against one shattered cheek. "Shouldn't have let you live. Should've staked you the minute I saw it. There's a weakness in you, boy, and it'll bring anyone you're close to down if they're not careful." 

Which begged the question of why he hadn't staked him. Why hadn't he destroyed Drusilla's misbegotten creation when he first laid eyes on him? He should've, he knew that now. William would tear the family apart if he weren't taken in hand, but how was he to do that without breaking him? Drusilla had been his masterpiece, an eternal testament to his purest works of evil forever caught in the seconds after she shattered completely, and Angelus knew that if he wanted to, he could do the same thing to William. But he was reluctant to destroy him so thoroughly; there was potential there, if he could only set it free. 

So what was the key? What would unlock William's demon and banish the last remnants of the soft human he'd been? Angelus frowned, then slid his hand down to cradle William's chin, tipping his head back to study the lax features again. He was so small, so delicate and dainty- like a woman, almost. It couldn't have been easy for a boy to grow up with such a pretty face... 

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought about it. He knew what happened to pretty boys, and if William's shock at being brought to his bed was anything, he'd been spared some of it. But Angelus would be willing to bet that sweet little William had suffered through his share of bruises and beatings at the hands of his peers. And while he might be tiny, he was proud enough to feel the sting of their scorn, and angry enough to wreak havoc over it. He just needed the right targets. 

Angelus reached up and flipped the locking mechanism on the shackles open to release William. He caught the boy before he hit the floor, then lifted him over his shoulder and carried him upstairs to his own room. Easing the limp body onto his bed, he walked over to the washstand and filled the bowl, then dampened a cloth and returned to the bed to start cleaning his childe. 

"You're stronger than those fools dreamed," he purred in a soft voice. "And when you wake up, you're going to start proving it. You'll be a terror, and the weak humans who thought to deny what you really are... the last thing they see will be you, covered in their blood and reveling in their death." 

Once William was completely clean, Angelus took one of his shirts from the wardrobe and pulled it over him, guiding arms through sleeves until he was fairly swimming it is, his lean form almost lost in the oversize cloth. But the scent of his sire would help him, make his dreams a little easier and take some of the panic that he was bound to wake in. Tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, Angelus smiled down at what would become his finest childe. He would be the most beautiful, the most vicious, the wildest and most lethal demon that the world had ever seen. 

And he would belong to Angelus. Those laughing blue eyes, that tender smile, the tiny sigh that always seemed to send him off to sleep... those would all be for Angelus as well, and for Angelus alone. Bending to place a light kiss on William's temple, Angelus murmured, "Love you, boy." 

He straightened up and walked out of the room. It was time to find the humans that had thought they were better than his childe... and then he could show him how to make them pay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread - Blaise Pascal

Spike stared at the leather traveling bag with a sort of horrified numbness, still unable to quite believe it. He was being sent away. He'd been threatened with it for so long, at least once a week since he'd decided to show Angelus exactly what kind of demon he could be, but never had he believed they would actually do it. 

Angelus placed another shirt in the bag and looked over at him. "It's just for a few days, Will," he said again, as though the short time would make any kind of difference. 

"Spike," he muttered sullenly. Why was it that everybody but Angelus accepted his name change? The women had forgotten all about 'Will', but Angelus seemed determined to hang onto the name, and the man that used to answer to it. 

"Will," the older man replied pointedly, shoving a pair of pants into the bag, "Now, we've been over this. Darla's wanting to give me a special treat for my birthday, you know that. Besides, it's not like you're going to the ends of the earth - just to another hotel, and a very nice one, too." 

Spike wanted to scream, to rail at him that the quality of the hotel didn't matter, just the fact that he and Dru were being packed up and shipped off like so much unwanted baggage, but he just scowled down at his shoes. "Dru says it's bad," he finally said in a low voice. "Says you're gonna make the stars angry an' all that." 

Angelus shook his head and stuffed the last shirt in the bag, then closed it and buckled it tightly. "You know better than to listen to her nonsense." He picked the bag up and started towards the door. "Leaving in five minutes, boy - willing or not." 

Spike glared at his back as he walked down the hall. "It's not nonsense," he whispered. Angelus hadn't seen Dru's state after her nightmare the other night, hadn't dried her tears and listened to her sob about the stars taking Daddy away. Spike had, and it chilled him to the bone. The thought of something taking Angelus away... 

It was foolish to consider, he knew, but it seemed that Dru's stars weren't wrong all that often. He couldn't always understand her ramblings at first, although the terrified whispers about Daddy disappearing beneath the light of a sunshine girl seemed to be pretty clear. Their sire was going to either leave them for good or dust. Either way, she'd been certain that he wouldn't come back for them after his birthday party. 

He shouldn't care. Angelus had made that point often enough, with fists and feet and anything else that happened to be nearby. And while Spike might be a relatively young vampire, he had every confidence in his ability to take care of himself and Dru if he needed to. He was an Aurelian, trained by Angelus himself, and that meant something in the demon world. But even with all that, he couldn't quite silence the faint whisper of joy and longing that his sire's presence always seemed to evoke. And the thought of a world without Angelus was unthinkable. 

The slam of a door was followed by Angelus' bellowed call for him, and Spike scowled as he went to answer it, leaving little doubt about how willing he was. He didn't see any sign of Dru, so guessed she was already in the carriage. Angelus ordered him outside to join her, his displeasure with them both more than evident. 

They rode in a tense silence to the hotel, where Angelus made them wait outside while he went in to get their key. He yanked the carriage door open and slapped the key down into Spike's hand, not bothering to look at him as he growled, "You've got the Gold Suite. They won't be disturbing you during the day, and you two are to have anything your ungrateful little hearts could want." 

Anything except Angelus, that was. Spike looked down at the key and nodded. "Thanks," he said softly. 

He didn't reply, just waited for them to get out. Dru had begun to cry on the way over, and her tears seemed to be the last straw. Angelus shoved her at Spike with a curt, "Tend to her." 

He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair as she sobbed against his shoulder. Over her head, his eyes sought Angelus', suddenly desperate to say he was sorry, but he didn't get the chance. Angelus turned away, leaving Spike only the sight of his sire's broad back before the carriage door closed. "I'll be back for you in three days," he told them. "And you'll answer then for your lack of faith in me." 

The driver cracked his whip and the carriage rolled away amid the clatter of the horses' hooves. They were left standing outside the hotel, clinging to each other like lost children. In a way, he supposed they were. 

"Daddy's gone," Dru whispered. 

"He'll be back," he assured her, hoping that he sounded more confident than he felt. "C'mon, let's go see our room, yeah? We'll go out hunting later an' find you somethin' special." 

She let him lead her inside. "You'll take care of me now, won't you, my Spike?" 

"Of course I will." She leaned her head against his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her.

Already he could tell it was going to be a very long three days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you speak the word it shall own you, and if you don't you shall own it - Arabic Proverb

Angelus left the baby in the hands of the first group of missionaries he saw, refusing their offer to take him with them on the next boat out. He couldn't trust himself around so many people now, not when he was hungry enough not to care about how innocent they may or may not be. He doubled back to find what was left of his family instead. 

They were easy enough to locate - all he had to do was follow the trail of mangled bodies, more than one with a sharp piece of wood embedded in its eye or forehead. He found them near one of the few temples that hadn't already been gutted by fire. They were dancing to music only they could hear, whirling in circles over the paving stones of the courtyard beneath the moonlight. They were breathtakingly beautiful. 

For several minutes he stood and stared at them. Drusilla looked like some kind of ethereal Eastern spirit, her dark hair reflecting the light of nearby fires in a way that made her pale skin seem even whiter than usual. She moved with the same languid grace she always had, her arm raising in the same slow sweep that had hypnotized more than one helpless child to their death. The fragility that had drawn him clung to her like a shroud, hiding the strength and viciousness that he'd been sure to instill as well. 

And as for Spike... he was alive in a way that Angelus had never imagined he could be, on fire with his triumphant kill. His features were spattered with blood, his eyes alight with a blaze that seemed to reach out into the darkness and call the humans to him. Not for the first time, Angelus wondered if there might be a bit of incubus in the boy, or if somehow his death had just freed an allure that never really surfaced as a human. Either way, the fledgling he'd once despaired of ever properly training had become a demon to be proud of. 

Spike bent to whisper something into Dru's ear, and her high laughter floated over the distance that separated him from them. Angelus took an instinctive step towards them, his hands twitching at his sides. He wanted to lay them both out and spend hours relearning them, wanted to tear their clothes off and see if somehow the unchangeable had changed in the two years he'd been gone. He ached to sink his fangs into Spike's throat and taste the changes the powerful Slayer's blood was no doubt already making in his boy, then fuck Dru until the stars came down to whisper to her. He longed for the scrape of teeth over his skin, the gentle worship of hands and mouths, the scratch of nails and the press of bodies that each day used to begin and end with. 

He could go back to them, couldn't he? They wouldn't turn away from him like Darla had, wouldn't cast him out for being careful about who he fed from. They were his, had been made and molded with his own two hands, and that meant something that no soul could ever erase. He'd been their god, their lover and protector and world, and he could be again. His mind made up, Angelus moved forward, determined to take his two beauties, get the hell out of China and start their new lives as soon as possible. 

A crumpled body at the entrance of the temple stopped him cold. He didn't have to wonder about who it was, not with her killer still so close. If she'd been alive he would have felt her power, would have instinctively known her for what she was - walking death. She was so tiny, though... little more than a child, really, and it was almost hard to believe that the small figure that now lay on the floor had been the protector of all mankind and the terror of the demon world. Seeing her like this, though, he realized that she'd been more than that. She'd been a little girl, a daughter who had grown to be a young woman that laughed and cried and fought the monsters of the world to make it a safer place. Except she didn't do that anymore; Spike had made sure of that. 

Spike had killed a Slayer. His William had faced a deadly fighter and beaten her, and now basked in his newfound prowess, her blood still drying on his skin. Angelus wondered if he'd even have recognized this little savage as his boy if he'd chanced upon him. Where was his timid lover who used to blush when Angelus teased him? The vampire who held Drusilla didn't look like the man that used to tremble under his hands, and he missed that. His Will had pulled him down for kisses like an eager virgin, hungrily sought his touch and then curled against him afterwards any time he was allowed. He snuck poetry when he thought nobody was watching, sat through doll tea parties and was the only man that Darla would allow to touch her hair. And even though he'd never been given more than a scrap to encourage him, he'd loved them all. That had been more than evident. 

But there was little trace of that man here. Blood had replaced poetry, and the hands that used to braid shining golden hair now ripped his victims apart. There had still been heat in his eyes earlier, but it was for the kill now, not Angelus. His sweet boy, his innocent lover, had completely vanished, and for the first time, he couldn't think of him as William any longer. Before, there had always been that part that Angelus alone held, that part that was Will, no matter who he killed, but he couldn't see that anymore. This was Spike - wholly and completely Spike. 

And it was Angelus who had created him. He stared wide-eyed at the dead Slayer as he realized that he was the one who had destroyed his Will. Hadn't he told him to be more demonic, exhorted him to ever greater heights of violence and depravity with each fresh murder? He'd chained him, beaten and fucked him into submission, demanding that he give up what he'd seen as weakness. His fault. All his fault. Will had been like a fallen angel, shining amidst the darkness he'd found himself in, and with a sickening cold rush, Angelus realized the enormity of the sin he'd committed. He'd stolen the sweetness that had resided in him, corrupted the purity that had somehow followed him into death, and he could never undo it. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, but he couldn't have said if he was apologizing to Will for the years of degradation and abuse, or to the victims that would pay the price for Angelus' actions. For the first time, he realized that he bore the guilt for Spike's transgressions. He had tortured him, broken Drusilla and fashioned them into the blackest, most warped of mirrors, always seeking to refine them into his vision of a perfect family. Perfect doting little daughter, perfect dark mate to stand by his side. He had unleashed these two creatures on the world, and they were exactly as he had made them to be: a madwoman who delighted in the death of children and a vicious thug that had an obsession with the Slayer. Every life they took, every family they destroyed, every drop of blood they shed was all on his hands. And, like Lady Macbeth, he would never be able to wash them clean. 

Dark eyes met his, but there was no gleeful welcome in their depths. Whether Spike knew about his soul or not, Drusilla did, and it was clear that she shared Darla's opinion of him now. He didn't think he could stand to see such contempt in Spike's eyes as well. With a low, wordless cry, Angelus turned and fled into the burning night. Maybe somewhere out there he could find something to help him forget the family he'd lost and the tender man he'd obliterated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without silence there would be no sound - Justin Bryan Snider

He killed three minions on his way into the factory, completely ignoring the summons from the main room where the littlest vampire was holding court with the rest of his brainless wannabes. If he had to face that supercilious twit right now he'd end up twisting his head off and seeing how long he could play footie with the wanker before he dusted. And according to Dru, they needed the brat for a few days more, at least.

Storming into the lower levels, he headed for the room he'd claimed as his own personal retreat, slamming the door as hard as he could behind him. He still couldn't believe it - Angelus was here! And while he might be all souled up, might reek of the Slayer in the most disgustingly wholesome of ways, he was still... Angelus. Still his sire, even if he wouldn't acknowledge the fact.

The thought sent pain sliding through his entire body in an icy rush until fury rose up to block it out. How dare the bastard think he could ignore them! And what the hell did he think he was doing, trying to act like nothing had changed when he'd fucking abandoned them? Hadn't bothered to say good-bye, hadn't even left a note to so much as say, 'Piss off', just walked away and left them! He'd pay for it, though - Spike would see to that.

A candelabra toppled to the floor, the clang lingering in the air long after the heavy iron stand stilled, but Spike didn't notice. "Fuckin' ponce," he muttered. "Gonna make him beg for mercy, show him who's in control of the family now. Didn't want us, did you? Well, we'll see how you like it when you're the one on the receivin' end, yeah?"

He picked a chair up and slammed it against the wall, finding some small satisfaction in the sound of the wood cracking. Grabbing hold of the velvet cushion, he tore the cloth and flung it across the room to land on top of the candle holder in a heap of feathers. With an animal roar, Spike set about systematically destroying everything within reach until most of the room's furnishings lay scattered about in pieces. When the last crystal vase exploded with a satisfying crash against the far wall, he dropped to his knees amid the rubble and looked around at the mess he'd made.

It didn't make him feel better, and it should. He'd always loved the catharsis he found in the whirlwind act of destruction, ever since Angelus showed him - and there it was again. Angelus. He just wouldn't get out of his head! A hundred years since he'd bothered to look in on his childer, and Spike could still hear his voice, could still feel the weight of his hand on his shoulder to praise him for a job well done like it was yesterday. He could remember the way those dark eyes looked when they were hunting, how the deep voice called his name as they rutted in Angelus' big bed, and the feel of his sire's hands on his body when he used to pet him in the lazy aftermath was something he was sure he would carry with him to Hell when he finally dusted.

So how had Angelus forgotten it all so easily? How had he turned his back on them and never looked back? Was it all just a lie, the promise of protection and safety, the words that had bound them all as a family, or had the soul somehow warped him? Spike didn't understand. What could he possibly have done that was so bad that his own sire wouldn't look at him? Was he cursed, somehow, damned to always love those that would never love him back? With Dru fading more and more each day, he was scared, and he needed his sire now more than ever, needed to lay his head on a broad shoulder and know that he wasn't all alone in the world. He ached to feel Angelus' arms around him, to hear him say that everything would come out all right.

Getting to his feet, Spike walked over to the bed and knelt before the chest at the end of it, opening it to retrieve a small bundle of yellowing linen. Swallowing hard, he unfolded it and laid it on the bed, sinking down onto the mattress beside it. The shirt had escaped Darla's wholesale destruction of Angelus' things only because it was tucked away in Spike's bag. He'd often thought about that, tried to convince himself that it had been put there on purpose, that it was Angelus' way of providing him with something to help him get through that first separation from his sire, but remembering the way they'd argued out his leaving, he knew it was more likely that it had been shoved in there by mistake. Either way, he was glad to have it.

The shirt was his sole proof that Angelus had existed, the one pathetic remnant of a magnificent demon- that was, unless you counted the very existences of Drusilla and himself. And when he thought about the vampire he'd seen earlier, he had to admit that this was likely the only thing that would ever remain of Angelus. Spike buried his nose in the shirt, inhaling deeply as he chased the faint scent of Angelus that still lingered in the fabric. "Miss you," he muttered, finally accepting what Dru seemed to have known years ago - Angelus was gone. And he wasn't ever coming back. The vampire he'd met in the school that night, the one who'd greeted him with a glad laugh and embraced him in familiar arms... that vampire wasn't his sire.

His sire would never have let some twerp snipe at him like the boy he held had. His sire would've snapped the boy's neck, yelled at Spike for being within twenty miles of the Slayer, and dragged him off to spend the next week or so tied to his bed, just to remind him of who he belonged to. His sire would have pinned him to the wall the second he uttered the word 'housebroken', not tried to shrug it off with a laugh. This 'Angel' was nothing at all like his sire, and to see him wearing his sire's face was just... wrong.

Closing his eyes, Spike let himself pretend one last time that he had his sire there - his _real_ sire, not that imposter - then sat up and carefully folded the shirt. He placed it back in the trunk, squared his shoulders and headed back to Dru's room. She'd want to hear all about the Slayer, after all. He didn't mention Angelus to her, didn't tell her about the stranger that had taken their sire's place or the way he planned to make the souled prat scream in agonizing pain before he was dusted. She wouldn't understand, and it would only upset her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence is deep as Eternity; speech is shallow as Time - Thomas Carlyle

He gave up on reading somewhere around midnight, after realizing that he'd been staring at the same page of  _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_  for the last hour. Closing the volume with a sigh, Angel set it down and went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of blood. While it heated, he found himself thinking about Nietzsche's conviction that God was dead and wondering what the philosopher would've said if he could have seen what Angel had.   
  
You see, God wasn't dead, and Angel could prove it. Not with his own tarnished soul or struggle for redemption, not when both were far weaker and shakier than he liked to admit. No, God's existence was visible in something that was at once much simpler and far more complicated - Spike.   
  
Spike had crawled out of his grave with so much of his former self intact that Angelus had often wondered if he'd been made wrong. He wondered now if Spike hadn't been the Almighty's answer to the challenge Angelus had thrown up to Him since his own turning. The village priest had spoken of a faint, distant God who supposedly loved His children yet was swift to judge and damn those that displeased Him, too much like his own father for comfort. Once was he was turned, Angelus set about seeking his proof. He wanted to see God for himself, and so he did everything he could think of to provoke the wrath of the heavens.   
  
He'd been sure that it would come when he raped, tortured and turned a nun, one of Christ's own brides, but the silence that had rung out for almost a century still stood. Then just when he was about to give up and accept that perhaps there truly was nothing, he received his answer. But it hadn't come in the expected form of a vengeful Slayer or vampire hunter. There was no bolt from the blue to strike him down for his crimes. The only answer he got, the only sign of the Presence he'd heard of all his days, was found in the singular being that had become his youngest and most cherished childe.   
  
He'd first sensed the divine hand that went into the shaping of his childe before he had his soul, but it took learning to see beyond just himself to realize how truly unique Spike was. He used to see God in the blue eyes that watched him with such open adoration, in the carefully chiseled cheekbones and full mouth that blended masculine and feminine beauty with a breathtaking balance. After China, though... after China he'd come to understand how much more there was that he'd missed.   
  
It had taken a soul for him to see the boundless love that seemed to emanate from his boy like a light. The Gypsy curse had ripped away the veil of willful ignorance that he'd used to blind himself for so long, but by that time the work that he'd set out to do had been all but finished, and his William was almost completely lost beneath the hard veneer of Spike. The cocky, sneering bleached punk that had replaced his childe was easy to hate, if only because he was so different from the gentler version that Angelus had loved. That Angel still cared for, although he could never allow him to know it.   
  
The microwave beeped, the shrill sound pulling him back into the present. Angel took the cup out and went back to the living room to settle into his chair, taking a sip of the blood and grimacing at the heavy, bitter taste. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that, not if he fed off it for the next five hundred years. Unbidden, memories of hot human blood flooded his senses. He closed his eyes but that only seemed to make it worse.   
  
Setting the cup down on the table, the brunet shook his head. He could feel those dark urges welling at the edge of his mind, sense the hunger for blood and sex and pain and death that was an almost palpable need. It was so tempting to let go, to just sink into those desires, give them free rein until the soul no longer burned inside him, and for a second he hovered on the edge of control. Only the thought of what would happen to those he cared about kept him back, the picture of Buffy's ravaged body lying lifeless in the courtyard near Spike's battered form strung up in chains... they would pay the price for his weakness if he gave in and he couldn't allow that. Not again.   
  
Angel didn't understand how either of them could forgive him for what he'd done last spring. With his soul gone, he'd been more than a little insane, raging at all those that had drawn upon his heart, human and demon alike, and the two of them had suffered simply because he loved them. He'd made no distinction between the bright girl that his soul loved and the tender demon that had been his lover long before she was born, had instead sought to lay waste to them both. As though their deaths could somehow erase the face that he had once been anything other than the pure demon that was unleashed after that night with Buffy. And somehow neither of them tried too hard to kill him for his sins against them.   
  
Buffy still loved him, he knew that, had seen it in her eyes countless times over the last few months, and he believed that maybe Spike cared for him still. His little speech earlier had given Angel a small reason to hope that perhaps there was some remnant of affection for him in the blond's heart. Why else would he have looked directly at Angel as he declared himself to be 'love's bitch', why refer to blood and the type of complicated passion that a human girl like Buffy could never fully understand?   
  
Of their own volition, his thoughts drifted to the tempest that he'd seen in his childe's blue eyes, and Angel wondered for the thousandth time what might have been different if he hadn't run from him in China. Would his Will have greeted him with a smile when he stepped out of the shadows, or would it have been Spike who looked back at him with an ice cold gaze? Could he have learned to live around the soul, or would it only have been a matter of time before he learned to hate his family and they to despise him? Had he, in fact, spend the last hundred years alone for no reason other than his own desperate fear?   
  
The thought sent a bolt of hunger through him, strong enough to cramp his insides. Almost a century alone, no one to share his nights with, nobody to understand who and what he was, and it might well have been in vain. He might have had a companion, if only he had taken the chance, someone to travel by his side and talk to through the long, lonely daylight hours. But fear had ruled him, and as he stared at the book he'd laid aside, Angel realized once again how very wrong Nietzsche was.   
  
There was indeed a God - a powerful, vengeful deity who served up justice in His own time. And after several hundred years, His wrath had finally descended upon Angel and left him to miss and yearn for what he had never truly had.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Spike stared down at the cell phone in his hand. He'd taken it off one of the college kids that he and Harris were always fleecing for money down at the Bronze, and the boy must not've realized it was gone yet, because it was still picking up a signal. Probably thought he lost it, or else just figured Mommy and Daddy would buy a new one, so didn't worry about it. Flipping it open, the blond studied the lit up display, absently running his thumb over the keypad, careful not to push any of them just yet.

Four little words. It would be so easy, really. All he had to do was dial the number he'd memorized last year and say those four words, and it would all end. The loneliness, the ache so deep that nothing soothed it, the hurt, all of it would go away with just four little words. At least, that's what he told himself.

 _Sire, I need you_. The words were a call that no sire could refuse. Angelus told him that, said that all he ever had to do was say those words and whatever help he could provide would be Spike's, 'no matter what'. Of course, that was before curses and Slayers were a part of their lives, before a hundred years with a soul had driven Angelus insane and a sodding piece of government metal had rendered Spike toothless.

Had Angel ever been told about the chip? Spike thought it might've come up when he came back for the service, but he wasn't sure. The days just after had been a blur of people coming and going, most of them only barely acknowledged through the fog of his healing sleep. He remembered Dawn, knew she had been there because the feeling of her hand in his had been the only thing keeping him sane as they stood by the pitifully small grave with Tara and Giles on either side. They'd been given the place of family - him at Dawn's insistence - and like most family members who'd lost their mainstays, they drifted through the days wrapped in awkward silences filled with barely-contained tears.

The promise Buffy had asked him for weighed heavy on his shoulders, an almost tangible burden that seemed to press down on him harder with every passing day. There was no question that he'd keep it, and not just because he'd given his word. He loved Dawn with the same fierce protectiveness that he'd felt towards her mother and sister, and would've gladly taken on her care without ever needing to be asked, just because she actually cared about him in return.

He still wasn't quite sure how that had happened, but somewhere along the way he seemed to have been adopted into the Summers clan. Joyce had taken him under her wing just like she had most of the Scoobies, listened to him rant about Dru and Passions and the bloody chip, and never looked at him as anything less than a man just because he happened to be a vampire. Her loss still hurt, although it was nothing compared to the aching chasm in his heart that Buffy had left behind.

Buffy. Just thinking her name hurt. He'd never really expected her to love him, only asked that he be allowed to love her, and near the end he thought she'd started to understand that. Loving was what he did, after all, what he'd been created for, and the one thing he knew he excelled at. It was the way of the world: Angelus had taken blokes apart a piece at a time, Drusilla saw the future dancing in the night sky, Buffy kept the world safe from monsters like him, and Spike loved them all. He didn't know anything else to do, any other way to be.

He was used to the ones he loved not returning his feelings, even resigned to the fact that he would lose them eventually. He just hadn't expected to have to watch one of them die. It was worse than being left could ever be- at least when they left, they were still out there even if they weren't with him. Death was the one thing he couldn't fight, and he hated it. She'd plummeted to earth, taking his heart with her, shredding it as she fell amid the light until it lay shattered with her body on the pile of rubble. He'd laid the last bits of his love in the grave with her, and if it weren't for his promise and the girl that needed him, would have added his ashes to the dirt that blanketed her as well.

The others looked in on him from time to time, more from a need for someone to take patrol or watch Dawn than from any real concern. He supposed he could ask Harris to go play pool, maybe even see about dropping in on the lot of them at the shop sometime, but then again, why bother? They were mortal, and even if he managed to keep them alive through the next apocalypse, they'd eventually kick it as well. No sense in learning to care for them, too.

No, he needed someone else, someone who might be able to understand the pain that tore at him and even guide him through the folly of caring for humans. Taking a shaky breath, he slowly punched the numbers in, gritting his teeth as he raised the phone to his ear. It rang again and again, a shrill peal that went unanswered for an achingly long time. Spike was about to hang up when he heard a click on the other end.

"Hello?" At the sound of Angel's voice, he knew that he couldn't do it, couldn't ask for help from this creature that his sire had become. Not that it would be given even if he did ask, anyway. Not from Angel. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Spike pressed the button to end the call and set the phone down, his hand shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to warm flesh that was always cold these days. When had the chill settled into his bones, leaving him shivering like a human? When he fell in love with his mortal enemy? When he moved into the crypt? Or was it before that, when the government soldiers had raped him in every way possible and shoved a chip in his head that left him effectively neutered and harmless? He shuddered, wondering if he would ever manage to get warm again, or if he was doomed to remain a dead, cold, loveless thing for the rest of his days.

"Sire, I need you," he whispered. But only the faint echo of his own lost voice answered him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone - Harriet Beecher Stowe

"I'm sorry." He didn't respond to the words, didn't give any sign that he'd heard them, just stared straight ahead and tried to tell himself that it was all a nightmare. After an unknown period of time, he heard the soft click of a door closing and knew that she'd left. Just as well that she had- he didn't think he could look at her right now without breaking.

She'd grown up. The pretty girl that had loved him had matured into a beautiful woman that still cared for him, but didn't love him anymore. It was for the best, really- he didn't think he could say he loved her anymore, either. Too many years had gone by with too many battles and too many losses on both their parts for either of them to truthfully claim to be the people they once were when they fell in love.

But that wasn't what kept him from turning to her now. No, he needed her gone so he didn't have to see her eyes any longer. She'd been crying recently, he had smelled it on her, but there was a light in her eyes that had been gone from them for years, a lightness in her voice that reminded him again how very young she was. And now she had the entire world in front of her. There were no more chains around her, no more duties and Chosen One responsibilities to keep her from enjoying life. She was just one more young woman among the many, free at last to pursue every dream she'd ever had.

Angel tried to tell himself that he was glad for her. She'd earned this, facing down one apocalypse after another, and it was only fitting that she should have her chance to enjoy the world she'd saved so many times. But he couldn't stop thinking that the price had been higher than he might have wished. Buffy had her life and her freedom, but why had it come at the cost of his childe's death?

Spike was dead. The words rang in his head, still as jarring and incongruous as they'd been when Buffy had said them. He'd stared at her for a while, waiting for the punchline, knowing it had to be a sick joke of some kind. But no bleached blond pain in his ass had sauntered into the office to laugh at him for buying it, and the longer he waited for it, the more aware he became of the pity and sorrow in the Slayer's eyes. After what felt like hours of silence, she'd begun her tale. His boy had died a hero, she said. On his feet, with his head held high, laughing as he pulled every last foe down with him. Not just the vampires, either. Spike had taken the whole town of Sunnydale to Hell when he died, reduced it to nothing more than a crater at the end of the road, right down to the rusting Welcome sign. 

He would've liked to have seen him in those final moments, lit up by his soul and shining like the dawn. Even without his soul he'd always possessed a sort of radiance, as though part of him were forever caught in those last moments of true life. With it, he must have been incandescent. Buffy had glanced down at her hand, her palm covered with blistered burn marks that could only have come from contact with Spike, but no details were offered and he hadn't been able to bring himself to ask. Had she reached out as he started to burn? Did her touch give him any peace before he crumbled to ash, or had he been in too much pain to feel it by then?

God, the pain must've been incredible. He'd turned away from her then, unable to stem the tide of anger that rose up with the sight of her any longer. Angel wanted to seize her shoulders and shake her, demand to know why she'd left him there, why she hadn't simply yanked the damned amulet off and forced Spike out of there. She'd left his boy alone, abandoned the man that loved her to die in the agony of fire.

Angel could hear the warmth in her voice, the pride in Spike and the wonder that his sacrifice had set her free. And he hated her for it. Did she know, could she even begin to comprehend what his death meant? Of course she couldn't - she was human, and a child at that. Spike's hair color probably hadn't changed since before she'd been born, for God's sake! 

But now his hair color didn't matter, because Spike was dead. His snark and devil-may-care attitude, his impulsive and damn near uncontrollable temper, his deep devotion to those he loved... that was all gone. Funny, how one smallish vampire could leave such a howling hole behind him. Angel's chest hitched as he sucked in a ragged breath, the thought of the void that Spike once occupied almost overwhelming.

On the heels of the loss came another realization: he was alone. The last member of his family that he might ever want to see again was gone, so once more he was on his own. But there was no joy in the thought, only an empty, aching pain where the knowledge of Spike should be. Where Spike would never be again.

He mentally shied away from the thought, unable to really face the thought of a world without Spike. He'd just always taken it for granted that Spike was out there, and it was only now that he wasn't that Angel admitted how much that hurt. Spike had been a part of his understanding of the world, a part of his heart, for so long that it was hard to really fathom the rest of his existence without the knowledge that somewhere out there his bleached blond childe was wreaking havoc and making trouble.

"It's not fair," he muttered, then repeated the words louder as anger rose up once more. Why was it Spike's life the Powers demanded as the price of the world? Why had Buffy sent him away and put the yoke around Spike's neck? Surely he couldn't be worth that much more than his boy. He should have stayed, should have stood by their sides and faced the darkness down. At the very least, he might have been able to say good-bye.

He tried to picture Spike's face in those final moments, his blue eyes bright with pain and love, laughter pouring forth as he began to burn. A low animal noise tore its way out of his throat, the only sound he could make through the sudden stabbing pain in his chest. He couldn't bear it any longer, couldn't stand the silence of his new office where his dead childe's laughter echoed in his ears. Shooting out of his chair, Angel grabbed the largest sword he had off the wall and stalked towards the door. If he couldn't have his boy back, he was going to make sure that he wasn't the only one hurting over it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, at times, he was to me, as yet remains unsaid - Herman Melville

Spike stared at the figure that tossed restlessly on the bed. He'd been watching Angel sleep ever since Fred and Wesley convinced him to go upstairs 'before he dropped', wishing that his sire would wake up and see him standing there.  
  
It was a useless hope, of course. He'd vanished from their sight that afternoon, and no amount of screaming or jumping around had brought about so much as a blink in his direction. So he'd spent the afternoon following Angel and Fred through the office, watching helplessly as they fought to make him real before he was lost forever. And while their efforts surprised and touched him, Spike knew they wouldn't be in time to save him.  
  
All day long he'd felt the heat of flames crawling up his legs, licking at his boots and jeans, growing stronger with every hour. He didn't try to pretend that he didn't know what it was - Hell had tired of waiting and was coming for him. When he'd heard the raspy voice call his name earlier, he'd been almost relieved, actually. The Reaper's taunting purr was proof that he wasn't insane again, and Spike clung to it, finding the presence of another that could perceive him a strange sort of anchor in the shadow world that he was currently adrift in.  
  
He wondered if that was the game, if he was to be driven so mad with the need for someone to see him that he would welcome Hell with open arms. And he knew that if it was, he wasn't too far away from it. Anything would be preferable to being forced to be a futile witness to Fred's frantic scribbling, Wes's earnest research or Angel's hard-edged commands, as though he could free Spike from his richly deserved punishment if he just barked the words in the right voice. It's useless, of course, but that doesn't seem to stop any of them from trying.  
  
"Spike… no, can't - Spike…" Angel's low mutter yanked him back to the present and he looked down at the frown on his sire's lips. He'd kissed those lips thousands of times in his long life, tasted wine and blood and come shared equally between them, but he didn't think he'd ever wanted to be able to taste them as badly as he did just then.  
  
Despite knowing he couldn't be heard, Spike couldn't help answering the plaintive call. "Right here, Angel," he said quietly. "Not leavin' unless I have to, should know that by now." He reached out, fingers brushing the air over Angel's hand, watching as it twitched as though to catch hold of him. "Didn't get to tell you earlier… what you said, it meant somethin'."  
  
He thought again about how he'd shrugged off Angel's confession regarding his poetry, wishing that he hadn't been quite so quick to shove the older man away. He'd just been so astonished to hear that not only did Angel remember the poems that he used to read aloud by the fire, but that they had touched something inside, maybe reached that piece of his sire's heart that Spike had always wanted to claim as his own, that he had no idea how to react. What did you say to your god when he said you had done something worthwhile?  
  
 _You like Barry Manilow._  Spike winced at the memory of the harsh words and the flicker of startled pain he'd seen in Angel's eyes just before the world fell apart around him. He'd been offered the first real praise from his sire that had nothing at all to do with him being a vampire, and he'd rejected it out of hand, brushing it aside as though it meant nothing instead of treating it like the treasure it was. He wasn't ever likely to have the chance to make it right, either - even if by some miracle he survived the onslaught of Hell, Angel would never offer such soft words of succor or try to allow him any real credit again, not after the way he'd reacted.  
  
He wanted to apologize, wanted to wake Angel and tell him how wrong he'd been, explain about the sudden constriction in his chest, but didn't dare try. Nothing he might say would matter now that he was inches from complete oblivion, and anything he might come up with would sound too much like good-bye for comfort. He didn't want to say that, not yet, and he hoped that Angel wouldn't want to hear it just now either. The panicked look that had grown to fill first Fred's and then Angel's eyes hurt, but as the day progressed, the steely determination he'd heard in his sire's voice gave him a tiny shard of hope to hold onto as well. He clung to that, desperate to have something to hold onto in the face of what was coming, even if he knew it was really of no use.  
  
Slowly but surely, hope was fading. And somehow Spike knew that when the last vestige of it disappeared, the Reaper would be waiting for him. There was nowhere to hide, no one to turn to, no way to escape the inevitable. This was it - he was truly and justly damned. Hell had come for him, sent one of its dark denizens out to reclaim the vampire that had eluded it for far too long. And while he might want to, Spike couldn't argue over it. For the things he'd done, and worse, the absolute joy he'd taken in them, he deserved to burn. He just hoped Angel never joined him.  
  
Bending over, Spike pressed a tender kiss to the familiar lips, wishing desperately that he could've tasted them just one more time. "Love you," he whispered softly as he straightened, casting one last look at his sire before he turned and walked off to meet his fate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter - Martin Luther King Jr

Angel shut the engine off, and glanced over at his passenger. "Okay, we're -" The word died on his lips when he realized that Spike was asleep. He must've drifted off at some point during the drive over, too worn out from his recent injuries to fight the effect of the painkillers any longer.

His eyes drifted down to the bandaged arms that lay limply in Spike's lap, his chest tightening as he thought about the reason for them. She'd cut his hands off. The sheer barbarism of the act left Angel stunned, and he wondered if this was how humans had felt in the face of Angelus's sadism, if they struggled in the same way to make sense of it all.

It still didn't seem quite real to him- the images of Spike's severed hands lying on a table across the room, the bloody stumps that had been raised to him and the sheer panicked horror in his childe's eyes, all had the fuzzy, unreal feeling of a dream. He'd almost hoped it was, desperately wishing that he could wake up after Andrew wheeled the broken slayer out into the night and left him to pace in his office while he waited for news on Spike's surgery. He'd gone down as soon as he got the call that they were finished and held his boy's hand as long as he dared before he had to leave. He didn't dare risk Spike waking up and finding him there, knew he couldn't handle the taunts and insults that would almost definitely be heaped on him for keeping vigil by the wounded vampire.

He wished now that he hadn't been quite so quick to instill such disgust for any sign of weakness in Spike. Maybe if he'd been a little less ashamed of the times he watched him sleep and a little more willing to let the younger man see his worry… but he'd learned long ago not to think about the maybes and might have beens.

Tearing his eyes away from the bandages, he looked back up at the image of his sleeping childe. Not for the first time, Angel found himself wondering how it was that such a bloodthirsty creature could look so innocent. He seemed like some kind of cherub that had curled up somewhere far from the heaven that he belonged in, and the idea of waking him was unthinkable.

But so was the thought of spending the day trapped in the car with Spike after the drugs wore off. Pain would make him cranky enough, but it was the forced inactivity and small space that would really drive him up the wall. Put it all together and they'd be lucky to both make it out of the day without dusting. Sighing, Angel reached out and tapped Spike's shoulder, lightly and first and then harder when he didn't respond. "Spike, wake up. We're here."

Spike didn't move, and Angel wondered what the hell the doctors had given him, and if he could get more of it for those days that he was particularly unbearable. Muttering under his breath about vampires who were more trouble than they were worth, Angel yanked the key out of the ignition and shoved it into his pocket, then got out of the car and went around to the other side. Spike nearly tumbled out onto the pavement when he opened the door, but Angel managed to catch him and hoist him up into his arms, thankful for once that the irritating blond hadn't bothered with his seatbelt.

Shifting his unconscious burden into an easier cradled position, Angel pushed the car door closed with his foot and turned towards the apartment building. Spike had mentioned the basement, so he headed there first. The door handle turned easily in his hand, and he made a mental note to talk to Spike about the need for locks in LA, before he walked inside and the stark, shabby ugliness of the place nearly made him turn around.

How could Spike live here? The threadbare sofa and matted shag carpeting aside, the whole place reeked of mold and mice. Angel shuddered and forced himself towards the hallway and the tiny bedroom with its single bed and limp little comforter. Easing Spike down onto the bed, he was about to leave when he noticed the heavy boots on his childe's feet. They couldn't be comfortable to sleep in, so he bent to remove them, unlacing and easing them carefully off.

Somehow or other, taking Spike's boots off led to removing his socks and shirt as well. When he'd begun to unbuckle the thick black belt to take the jeans off, Angel caught himself and pulled away. What the hell was he doing, stripping Spike like that? He grabbed the comforter, then swore under his breath when it tangled with the blanket underneath. 

Spike rolled over onto his stomach, whimpering softly when his bandaged arms slid over the sheet. "Angel," he muttered into his pillow. The sound of his name made Angel freeze, hands still tangled in the blankets.

"Spike?" he asked in a low voice. But there was no answer, neither a demand to leave nor a request to stay, so he pulled the blankets up and finished tucking Spike in. And if he sank down onto the edge of the bed and his hands lingered a little as he did so, he could be safe in the knowledge that Spike would never realize it.

Finally, he had to admit that he couldn't put off leaving any longer. "I love you," he whispered, leaning forward and kissing Spike's temple. He wanted to strip and crawl into that cramped little bed behind him, wrap his arm around the lean form and hold his childe close, but he knew that when the drugs wore off and Spike woke up, he wouldn't want to find him there. So Angel contented himself with a final look at his boy, then forced himself to walk out to his car and head back to his own lonely bed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest is silence - William Shakespeare

"Well, as long as it's not you." Spike shrugged, trying to act like he wasn't bothered by Angel's casual assertion that they were headed off on a suicide mission. He was still chafing over his assignment for the night - retrieving the baby was an easy enough task, one that almost any idiot with a few weapons and halfway decent fighting skills could manage. Hell, Harris could probably handle it, even with only one sodding eye!

Angel stared at his sullen childe for a minute, hands curling into fists to keep from reaching for him. It was taking almost all his resolve to keep from grabbing hold of the blond, although he wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss him or knock him unconscious and ship him off to the farthest location he could think of. Somehow he felt that he would have no problem heading to his death that night if he could just know that Spike and Connor were far away from the fight. But he'd tried that before, hadn't he? Tried to give Connor a life that didn't include demons or pain, only to have the demons seek him out anyway. "It's not going to be either of us," he pointed out, hoping that maybe it wasn't too late to convince Spike to stay out of this.

But he wasn't about be dissuaded. "Heard you the first time," the younger man snapped. "Probably don't qualify anyway, right? Not exactly the great white hero like you, savior of the world an' all."

The bitter hurt in those words made him flinch. Had he really done so little to show Spike how proud he was? Did he really not know that he was a champion? And probably a better one than Angel, since he'd actually been the one to seek his soul out, instead of having it imposed on him as a punishment. "I didn't mean that," he protested. "I just -"

"Save it, Angel. Don't care to go ten rounds just now." Spike shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do right now was fight. It seemed that was all they ever did, all they were really good at - fighting and fucking, although the great souled champion wasn't about to be caught doing the second, especially with the likes of him. He wondered why they couldn't just forget the anger for a little while, and he opened his mouth to ask, then shut it without a word and turned to go.

When Spike had volunteered to be one betraying him, he'd had to look away in an attempt to hide the pain that threatened to shred his insides. Even knowing it was a sham, he was still hurt at how eager his boy was to turn on him. But now, remembering the light that had filled those blue eyes, he knew he couldn't leave it like this. Angel's hand shot out to stop the blond before he could leave. "Spike, wait. I -"

"Don't worry about it, mate. It's all right, yeah?" He tried to shrug the restraining hand off, but Angel held fast.

"But I need to -" Spike's lips crashing against his cut him off. Angel didn't know if Spike had leaned in, or if he'd pulled him in, but when Spike's tongue brushed against his, he decided he didn't care. Silence spun out around them until finally Angel released him and Spike pulled back.

He looked down at his boots, oddly shy. "That was…"

"Nice."

"Yeah, nice," Spike echoed. He knew they needed to talk about what had just happened, but found he really didn't want to. Angel had kissed him, and he wanted to enjoy it a little longer before they had the inevitable 'this was a mistake' discussion.

"We'll talk later," Angel promised. For the first time, he thought there might actually be a later for them. Dying in a last blaze of glory seemed impossible when there was an adorably shy childe to kiss into abstraction, especially when said childe looked like he might not mind it.

Spike smiled and nodded. "Later, then." He watched Angel head out to get ready, then followed behind him, coat swinging jauntily with each step.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chaos had erupted with the first swing. Angel had no idea how long they'd been fighting or how many demons he'd slaughtered. Gunn had fallen shortly after the fight began, and he last saw Illyria up at the mouth of the alley, ripping whatever she could get her hands on apart. He and Spike were left to defend what ground they could, hacking away at the enemies that pressed them back a little more with every hour they fought. Bodies were beginning to pile up, multi-colored blood washed into rainbow puddle under the endless, driving rain. And still they kept coming.

No sooner had he felled one, then it seemed two more jumped in to take its place. He tried to blink the water out of his eyes, his features automatically shifting as he whirled at Spike's cry. A sword whistled towards him and his own shot up to block it just inches from the top of his head. They exchanged blows in a clash of metal, each thrust parried until the tip caught his shoulder. Angel growled and severed the demon's arm, but the strike had been made. Blood slid down his chest, the fresh scent seeming to enrage the hordes around him.

Another minion fell at his feet and he heard laughter ring out. Swinging around to meet another challenger, he caught sight of Spike engaged in a furious hand-to-hand battle with a blue-skinned demon. They moved forward and back, and for a second, he lost himself in the deadly beauty, the rapid-fire movements of hands and feet like an intricate ballet. A hard blow doubled him over, and he saw a slither of red out of the corner of his eye, but it was too late, and Spike vanished before he could cry out.

Angel wanted to scream, needed to rip the heads off everything around him, but all he could do was stare dully at the empty space where his childe had been, his mind trying to understand how Spike could be there one second and gone the next. He'd never gotten to tell him how he felt, never apologized for the lost years and multitude of regrets, never said how very proud he was of everything his boy had done, never let him see how much he'd missed him in their long time apart… and now he never would.

When he felt the first sharp twinge of the blade biting into his throat, he didn't struggle, just closed his eyes and pictured Spike's smile. A second later, his sword fell to the ground with a dull thump, a light scattering of dust covering the blood-spattered metal.


End file.
